


The Last Day

by Destina



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-01
Updated: 2002-11-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:09:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn realizes Boromir must take his journey alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Day

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to lists and archives in December 2002.

Year 3018, The Third Age  
December

Wherever Frodo moved, whatever his place in the line of Walkers traveling the road, Boromir's eyes were nearly always upon him. 

From the moment the nine of them set foot upon the road, Aragorn had taken careful note of the way in which Boromir looked at the Ring, and at its Bearer. It had seemed to him a strange thing, the way Boromir embraced the idea of its power. It was almost as though the words of those at the Council meeting had not penetrated his mind, as though they were a strange tongue he could not comprehend. 

Thus on the first day of their journey together, Boromir watched Frodo, ever mindful of the Ring's presence among them...and Aragorn watched Boromir.

The first day passed and blurred into the second, and all the days began to run together like the waters of the Middle-earth, passing one another and becoming an unending road. Day or night on their journey, Aragorn and Boromir would find themselves together in the hours of rest while another of their party was on watch. Together they honed the edges of their blades, making use of the time to prepare. Even with the eyes and ears of others at the ready, they listened, and waited, and rarely slept.

Aragorn had grown accustomed to these strange interludes with Boromir in the early morning hours, so much so that he knew he would miss them when they reached the point in their journey where they must part company. It would not be long, in the scheme of things. He did not expect that all of them would reach Mount Doom together. They did not speak of this, however. They spoke only of the most common things, when they spoke at all.

Instead, Aragorn turned his attention to his weapon. He had few possessions, and fewer still he cared to keep. His most recent was the most prized. The elvish smiths had been adamant: only the softest cloth was to be used on the blade of the sword Aragorn had christened Anduril. They had given him a lump of fabric so light it barely seemed real. Aragorn found it a pleasure to unfold this cloth, to let it slip between his fingers and wind it around his hand, and to slide it along the sharp edges of his sword. 

He found some irony in this gentle treatment. This after all was the Sword of Elendil, whose blade was splintered by the act of severing the hand of Sauron, now forged and tempered to ten times its original strength by elvish friends. Many times he had traced its brittle, broken edges with his bare fingers, to touch this tangible link with his ancestors. Each time, the act of touching it left him cold inside. To treat it now with such tender reverence seemed oddly against nature, but he could not resist. The blade seemed to call to him with its delicate patterns of stars and runes, and he was compelled to touch it. 

"It hardly seems the same sword." Thus interrupted, Aragorn looked up from his task, but his hand did not cease its motion. Boromir was polishing his own blade nearby in the dim light; he was perched on a rock near the edge of the small stream. "I had not thought I would see it made whole again. In truth, I do not believe I wanted to see such a thing." 

"It's just a tool," Aragorn said, as he turned his sword, Anduril. In the faint moonlight, the blade glittered like smooth crystal.

"There are other tools," Boromir said. "Weapons that aren't stained with the taint of Isildur's greed and weakness."

"Well," Aragorn said, as he rose to his feet, "if others will insist upon seeing this as a symbol, so be it. In that case, I must change the meaning of its symbolism."

"Elrond spoke of your great humility. I see he did not exaggerate." Boromir did not look up this time, but the white of his grin flashed from beneath his bowed head. 

Aragorn snorted a soft laugh and sheathed his sword. "We are not a company of warriors, so we must continue to look to our safety. These days on the road remain most perilous."

"I have begun to instruct the Hobbits in swordplay, as I said I would; the opportunity did not present itself right away, with the days and nights so cold. You would be wise to take Frodo aside and speak with him about that blade he carries. I fear he will impale himself with it in his sleep."

"He will need that blade if the Ring proves its power and one of us should show our weakness." Aragorn closed his hand around Anduril's hilt. "I have seen to it that he has the basic skill to wield it."

Silence settled between them again as they tended to their separate tasks. Aragorn consulted the small map Elrond had given him. They would travel another days or two before reaching the path to the slopes of Caradhras. Gandalf knew the way. They would not miss their mark. 

Aragorn glanced up at Boromir and studied his face, which fell half in shadow. 

"The Hobbits are brave, but this has proven to be a difficult journey for them." Boromir stood, dropped his great belt from around his waist and set his sword aside. "Two steps to my one, and three to each of Gandalf's. They tire quickly at such a pace."

"They are a loyal people. Friendships among them are true and deep, and will carry them through." Aragorn thought of Frodo's wide eyes and added, "Sam will not let Frodo tire."

"No indeed," Boromir agreed, chuckling. He tossed his cloak aside, then tugged at his overtunic and slipped it from his shoulders; he then folded it casually in half, lengthwise. Next he removed gloves, tunic and mail, in quick order, until he stood only in his shirt and trousers. With quick motions, he rolled up his sleeves. "Who is on watch?"

"Pippin. The rest are asleep."

"Even Gandalf?" Boromir glanced toward the clearing in the underbrush where the company was assembled. "That old wizard doesn't sleep much."

Aragorn said nothing; the tone Boromir used when he spoke of Gandalf was dismissive. Aragorn had known Gandalf well for many years and did not underestimate him. 

After a time, Boromir reached into the leather pouch that held his few belongings and withdrew his two shirts, wadded and wrinkled. He discarded the first of them by the side of the stream, then crouched beside the water and began to rinse the other. 

"They will not be dry before we must move again," Aragorn pointed out. 

With an impatient sigh, Boromir glanced up from his task and nodded toward the edge of the brush, where Bill was loosely tethered. "The pony will carry them on his back, spread across the provisions, and the sun will do the work." He wrung out the first of the shirts and tossed it in the thin grass, then began anew with the other. "Going without a fire is always inconvenient, but when one begins to stink, the disadvantages are multiplied." 

Aragorn laughed, and was surprised to hear the sound; good humor broke the darkness. He sat back down on the rock he'd claimed for his own and watched Boromir scrub at the shirt. The broad shoulders had been made strong by years of wielding a sword. There was a scar, just at the nape of his neck, where some enemy's blow had caught him unaware. It was a deep scar, one that disappeared beneath his collar, and was barely visible beneath the strands of his hair. Aragorn wondered what had caused that scar, and who had tended it; it had not healed well, and the ridges were raised along the length of it.

Boromir turned his head slightly, as if he could sense Aragorn's eyes on him. His hands stilled in the water and he swung around, fixing Aragorn with an oddly intimate gaze. But within moments, a guarded, searching look descended into his eyes once again, just as Aragorn had begun to look closely in return, and Boromir turned away.

Aragorn had the feeling that he had somehow been disconnected from something important, but he did not pursue it. Instead, he asked the question that was foremost on his mind. "How did you earn that scar?"

"It was a battlefield injury." Boromir squeezed the shirt draped limp across his hands. "It was not looked after for many hours afterward. It filled with a vile poison and very nearly killed me."

"There should have been healers," Aragorn began, but Boromir cut him off.

"It's been too long since you've seen what's become of your kingdom," he said, and pivoted in his crouch to look sharply at Aragorn. A frown creased his face. "I cannot be the first to have told you this, or to have wondered why you choose to pursue this deception."

For a moment, Aragorn weighed the wisdom of pretending to be ignorant of his meaning, but there was nothing to be gained by it. "I have not deceived."

"Haven't you, Strider?" Boromir slung the wet shirt aside. "Taking on names not your own, allowing others to believe this mystery which surrounds you...those are not the acts of a man who will go with me into Minas Tirith. They are not even the acts of a reluctant king." There was scorn and resentment in his voice. "Why this fiction? Do you fear what may come if you are known?"

"I fear nothing," Aragorn said quietly. 

"But you hide."

Anger flared within Aragorn; he thought of himself, as a young man of barely twenty, and of secrets revealed, and of his own struggles with the truths of his life. "I have never hidden what I am."

"This is where I must take exception to the concept of you as King." Boromir stood, faced him. "You do not say it is *who* you are, only that it is *what* you are. These two are twined together. It is not for you to separate them into halves; they are two sides of the same coin." His eyes narrowed. "A worthy man would understand this. This is why Gondor needs no King."

The passion in his words revealed Boromir as a man in love with his land, and a deep ache began somewhere inside Aragorn as he answered, "You speak as though you expect me to run from this place and attempt to claim the throne at this very moment."

"No. But the fact that you do not may be taken as further proof of what I have said." Boromir looked at him with defiance. In his eyes, Aragorn could see doubt resurrected anew. "Would you return with me, as a soldier, and be content to be led? Or must it be the throne or nothing?" Boromir's tone was neutral, but there was zeal beneath; Aragorn could see it in the hot gleam of his eyes. 

"I turned from the path of a King long ago."

"Yet others do not believe this to be so." Boromir tilted his head to the side. "Nor do I."

"I cannot account for what others believe," Aragorn answered. "You know nothing of me, or of the choices I have made, though I have taken pains to make clear to you why I stayed in the North, and what would otherwise have become of those who had need of my sword."

"I heard every word," Boromir said, and then fell silent for a time. Finally, he spoke, heavily and with deliberation. "But I see that your ties are to the Elves, and not to the land of Men."

"Rivendell is my home," Aragorn said. "This I do not deny."

"It is the reasons for it I question," Boromir said, and then hesitated, as if afraid, finally, he had gone too far. He looked down, and then turned his back to Aragorn. The set of his shoulders was tight.

Aragorn crossed the small distance between them and placed his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Speak plainly," he said, and it was less an invitation than a demand. 

"Among our people, and the Elves as well, there are those who have said you would take the lady Arwen to wife if she would have you." 

Aragorn could not see Boromir's face but the tension in the shoulder beneath his hand was pronounced. He did not remove his hand. "You have heard only half the tale," he said softly. 

Boromir turned, and still Aragorn did not move his hand. For a long moment they regarded one another, until Boromir asked, "Do you mean to say you would not want her? One has only to look at her to see how foolish you would be to turn her away. Or perhaps she refused you."

Aragorn shook his head. "She is not the reason I remained in Rivendell; she is the reason I left it. But not because she would not have me." 

Boromir's expression showed that he did not understand, and his words confirmed it. "You ask me to speak plainly, yet you speak in riddles."

"Elrond will wed her only to a King. I have not yet decided the path I am to walk." Even as the words left his lips, Aragorn could feel all the unspoken circumstances beating against him, whispering to him that he should share them, but he could not. Instead he asked, "What does it gain you to pry into these matters?"

In answer, Boromir reached out a hand and took hold of the pendant that hung around Aragorn's neck, the gift given him in parting by Arwen. He closed his fist around it, then opened his hand and looked at the pendant where it lay in his palm. The back of his hand rested against Aragorn's chest, warm even through the tunic and shirt he wore. Softly, he said, "It profits me to know the answer to this question."

"How so?" Aragorn asked, but he knew why; it was plain in the open gaze of his companion, in the need for hope shining there. 

"I must know if you will fight beside me, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And what your reward will be when you have come into my land." He released the pendant and withdrew his hand. "Now I know."

"No," Aragorn said, "you do not know. I cannot accept what she has offered me. There will come a time when I may satisfy Elrond's demands, but that time is long in the future. I will not rush to become something simply to satisfy this desire."

"What other reason, then?" Boromir asked. 

"Because my heart longs for that land," Aragorn said. The telling of it unburdened him; he could feel his heart begin to lift. "It is the place of my people. My place. And I will go there, and stand with you." Aragorn smiled. "And now, tell me truly what it gains you, to know my heart."

Boromir lifted his face, but suddenly, as though aware of how close they stood and how much may be revealed by proximity, he stepped back. Aragorn caught him, fingers twining in his shirt to pull him close again, and held him there. "Tell me," he said. 

"I cannot," Boromir said, "for I cannot speak plainly. I will say only that perhaps...I have need of a King."

Aragorn looked at him, and saw what could not be plainly said. And then there were no words at all, when he drew Boromir to him and their mouths pressed together, quick and hard, then slower, as each man opened to the other, as if to taste what would always be denied to him. Aragorn thought that this might be the price he would pay for the things he must have now, and for what Boromir most needed, and it was not a terrible price; his heart told him it was a cost he could bear. 

Boromir drew back, and his face was dark, but his eyes were alight with knowledge. As they stood together, Aragorn heard the footfalls nearby and released Boromir with reluctant hands. In unison both men turned their heads and saw Gandalf, his eyes glittering in the dark. 

Without haste, Boromir gathered up his clothing. He gave a nod to his companions and moved away upstream. Aragorn watched him go, but that glittering gaze fixed on him compelled him to turn back, and now Gandalf's weathered features were troubled. Aragorn said nothing, for he knew that in his own good time, Gandalf would make clear what he wished to share.

But Gandalf did not speak. Together they stood by the brook, and silence infected them both. At last, Gandalf raised his head and looked long at Aragorn, searching his expression. Aragorn withstood the scrutiny without speaking, for he knew Gandalf would ask his question if he felt it must be asked. 

Gandalf's eyes glinted sharp and shrewd in the darkness, and he cautioned softly, "Do not become distracted, Aragorn, for it would be madness indeed to lose sight of what we are about." 

Aragorn drew himself up, and glanced briefly back at the bend in the stream, where rocks shielded Boromir from view. Gandalf's insistent gaze pressed him, and he said, "Pippin's watch is nearly at an end. I will take a turn at it."

"Very well," Gandalf said. "Then I shall go and wake him, so he may appear to be as fresh as he was two hours ago when you left him at his post." With a wry smile, he left Aragorn beside the stream, alone.

The sky was a shade of morning twilight, deep blue just born from the black of night, and there was a chill in the air. Aragorn looked up, tracing the death of stars in the sky as their light was taken back by the day. He felt the sun on the cusp of the world even before he could see it. So it was with his heart; much that was not seen, but still it was felt, and it was difficult to push this growing need aside.

He turned in the direction Boromir had gone. His feet carried him a few steps before he slowed and then stopped. He bowed his head. A soft wind shook the brush, like the whispering of oracles foretelling ill tidings. He heard those whisperings in his own heart. 

He looked to the rocks as if he could see Boromir. Surely on the other side of them, his companion was waiting. Waiting to share a beginning among endings. But it was not safe, or wise, and still he wondered what Boromir desired most. Those questions stood between them, but he could not ask them. 

Aragorn turned away and walked the path back to their small camp. He knew Boromir would follow, after a time.

Year 3019, The Third Age  
February

For a time, no matter where Aragorn was in the line of Walkers, Boromir's gaze followed him. Aragorn had taken note of this, for he was much concerned with Boromir's desires, and to find himself chief among them gave him pleasure. It had become a game between them, one of unspoken temptation, of looking and being seen. 

They stole moments when they could find them, but those times came less often once Lorien had been left behind. As they neared the falls of Rauros, there was nothing but constant wariness. They were all on edge, and taking joy from one another was least among their concerns.

The Argonath loomed ahead, down the river and just out of sight, but Aragorn could sense its presence, like a giant beacon luring them home. But strangely, as its timeless strength drew them closer, Aragorn could feel Boromir pulling away. It had not been what was said, for much was still said that was not spoken, and their eyes met often. It was instead a feeling, an instinct Aragorn had relied on much and had little cause to doubt, and it told him now that the distance between them was growing with each passing day.

He wondered then if their joining would be enough. There were powers that could not be overcome with what could be shared between men, and he had placed himself between Boromir and his desires, becoming the object of all hopes. Caution had left him, for he believed the answers Boromir believed, even though they were not the whole of the truth. There was another desire, and it still held sway over the heart of the warrior.

They talked of little in the forest, but shared their passion quietly, away from the others in the restless hours. Aragorn offered what he could, but the shadows drifted between them. 

And then one day, Aragorn looked to Boromir, and saw his eyes following another, before they drifted shut. As if aware of the presence of avarice and need, Frodo lifted his hand to his neck and felt for the Ring, which lay secure in its place.

Aragorn looked away. His heart began to grieve.


End file.
